


Echoes

by dustbunnyprophet



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Pliroy, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Freeform, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, past Jean-Jacques Leroy/Isabella Yang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: Eventually the memories started to pull at the seams. And the past knocked the door down.Jean learned some burdens were meant to be shared.A winter in Saint Petersburg.A Pliroy fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tw: mind the tags!

The door slammed loudly. The peeling paint shed off the wood like dead skin, falling on the floor. Jean stood there, in the middle of the room, every muscle in his body clenched, and the echo of the wood hitting the frame still ricocheting through his limbs. His lungs had forgotten how to work. And the air was starting to burn where it was still locked inside his chest. It took a conscious effort to exhale and swallow a new breath. 

Yuri had not meant it. He knew he hadn’t. Not like  _ that _ . After all this time, Jean rationally knew that for all the insults that poured from his mouth with the same ease Jean could plaster a grin on his own, Yuri would sooner run himself through with his skates than hurt him. But it did nothing to quell the tremors that were rippling under his skin. Yuri didn’t know. No one did. And Jean was not going to tell them. It was his burden alone. 

Yuri carried enough on his shoulder, a lifetime of paper cuts that amounted to a gaping wound which had been barely stitched together, which made Jean’s irrational fears, the nightmares which lurked behind the corner, stupid in comparison. So Yuri didn’t know. And he could not understand. Or imagine Jean’s hands trembled while he stared unblinking at the door Yuri had slammed in fury on the way out. He could not understand that the very things which had upset him were nothing like he had pictured it. 

That Jean only wanted him to smile. And the sight of those green eyes twinkling in mirth was worth keeping the past locked inside him.

Except said past had knocked on the door, all but ripping it out of its hinges. And Yuri did not understand. Did not know about the wave of abject horror that had risen inside Jean when Isabella had sat down in front of him at the cafe that morning, thickly dressed to brave the harsh Russian weather. Snowflakes had been melting on the lapels of her coat. And Jean had forgotten how to breath altogether as she slipped it off with ease, giving him a smile that did not reach her eyes. How could Jean blame Yuri for his reaction when he had not been there to witness the stuttered conversation, to feel the way Jean’s heart had pumped adrenaline through his body. 

He had been ready to flee, to bolt from his chair and sprint out of the cafe. It’s a nightmare, he had repeated over and over in his mind while Isabella had chatted amiably. Like this was something they did. Like this was normal. Like he was still trapped by the tight knots of guilt she had tied around his wrists, and Yuri, his Yuri was only a competitor, someone to tease and beat at the podium. Someone to admire from the distance and be chided for it nonetheless, be accused with tears in her eyes of not loving her, of wanting to replace her. Of being a freak. Because he a kid. And how could Jean be attracted to him. It was sick, she had said,  _ he  _ was sick, and what was she even doing with him?

His stomach clenched at the memory. At how filthy he had felt. Because even now, when Jean woke with Yuri’s arms around him every morning, he could still not pinpoint just when admiration had turned to attraction. When had Jean started to see the way his muscles rippled and his hair shone. When he had gotten lost in the fire which blazed in his green eyes.

That morning when Isabella had slid into that chair at his table Jean had almost forgotten that years had passed since he had last seen her. And for a moment there had been only the painful clenching of his lungs as the first harbingers of panic made themselves known. She had given him one of her plastic smiles, and her pale blue eyes had been cold, cold, cold, freezing him into his chair.

But Yuri didn’t know that. He only saw the blurry picture someone had tweeted. And perhaps Jean should have spoken then, should have said something. Anything. But he hadn’t. And a lifetime of being tossed aside, of being temporary, expendable, had twisted Yuri’s perception. Voices have been raised, hands had flown in gesticulation, and then Yuri had stormed out of the small kitchen of their soviet-era  apartment. 

And the door had slammed, throwing Jean for the second time that day, back into the past.

The clock above the table ticked, the sound too loud in the silent kitchen, in the empty apartment. Twilight poured through the windows. It was early still, barely mid afternoon, but the November day waned fast, letting the darkness settle over the snow-covered streets of Saint Petersburg. 

Jean kept standing still, while the orange light of the streetlamps began to filter into the kitchen. His breaths were coming almost steadily now, and he risked a step forward. The door was still there, a dusting of paint on the floor. And Jean walked numbly to the corner where the a broom was tucked in the space between the fridge and the wall. He fetched it, and swept the floor. Then he switched the light on, opened the kitchen door and stepped in the narrow corridor, going to the bathroom to fetch his pills.  

Jean was faintly aware he was now operating on autopilot, but it was deeply ingrained inside him. It was the only way to push forward when the walls started closing in on him, and the tendrils of fear started to pull at his ribs until his chest collapsed in breathless panic, and Jean would find himself crouched in the corner of their Montreal apartment. 

But the low ceilings of the brutalist building he was in reminded him he was four thousand miles away from there. From his past. That this was his home now, on the seventh floor of a huge complex of concrete in the suburbs of Saint Petersburg. 

After plucking a pill out and swallowing it down with a mouthful of tap water, Jean made his way into the living room. He wrapped the throw blanket over his shoulders before curling down on the sofa, waiting for the calm to settle over his limbs. The light from the kitchen poured into the corridor, fading into darkness, while he waited for the pill to work its magic. 

His stomach was still knotted in apprehension and his hands refused to stop trembling. And it was not the memories alone which sprouted like weeds on the forefront of his mind. There was the fight with Yuri, and the way he had stormed out, which weighed heavily on him. He had no idea when Yuri would be back. They had never fought like this before, but Jean had. And the memory of the countless times Isabella had slammed the door in the same fashion, made the chill radiating from within his body grow colder.

He had spent too long hearing that sound, over and over. Feeling the slash of words that had been laced with venom. Jean had tried to break himself in half only to please her, to make her happy. To see her genuinely smile. But the harder he had tried, the farther the goal had seemed. And with time doors had become plates, smashed on the floor with meticulous fury while angry tears had streamed down her porcelain skin. And her accusing finger had joined the rest of her palm before it had connected with his cheek. He could still remember the sting, the sludge of words that had choked him in their harshness. He had not cared enough, she had said, he had not wanted her.

But he had. Jean had loved her so much it had hurt more than just his battered pride or the redness of his cheek. He would have given anything to see her happy. He would have given his life for her, if it meant she would have finally found her peace. Jean had truly been ready to do anything for her. And he  _ had  _ done it. He had bled and sweated for her, he had won medals, he had sacrificed the time he had used to dedicate to those few friends he had used to have. He had let them down, one by one, disappointing them. But it hadn’t mattered. Jean hadn’t cared if some, like Seung-gil, no longer wanted anything to do with him. Because she had been more important. 

He had loved her. But it had never been enough. 

And maybe he should have seen it before. Maybe he should have understood that the war raging behind her blue eyes was not his to fight. That he was more often than not an enemy. That she needed to destroy him. Because ultimately he was just a possession. His worth was in the medals he won, in the fame that followed him. She needed him to pull the spotlight over her, to make her be able to pretend she was happy. 

Isabella had carved him hollow. But even after all this time he was not able to hate her. He understood her more than she would wish him too. After all, the scars she had put on him were only an echo of those which lingered inside her. 

Even now Jean could not hate her.

He pitied her, yes. And a small part of him, he knew, would always cower in fear. Because after three years of  _ that _ , Jean’s insides still rattled, too used to it, to the slamming of doors, the breaking of plates, the sharp sting of a slap on his cheek. And the overwhelming guilt that would crash in tidal waves. 

After all the years, after tearing himself apart only to bleed in order to stitch himself back together. After scraping the bottom of the abyss, and nearly getting swallowed by it. After missing two and a half seasons because dragging himself out of his bed had been an impossible feat, let alone donning his skates and competing. After Yuri crashed his way into his life, tilting the axis of his life upside down. After all of that, Jean still found himself wondering if he could have done something differently. If in the end he could have made her happy.

He couldn’t. And nothing he had done could ever justify the abuse. 

He still struggled with the word, trying to explain her actions. He knew he had to strip himself of the guilt she had carved into his bones, to remind himself that she was broken. And none of it was his fault.

But he was broken too, wasn’t he? 

And now Yuri, angel blond hair and the skittishness of a wounded animal, had been hurt by proxy. And Jean could do nothing but choke on his guilt because he should have told him. He should have shared his past. Yuri had trusted him enough to tell him about his family, if only in bits and pieces. 

His head felt heavy with thoughts that flared and disconnected, slowly succumbing to the pill-induced numbness. He barely registered Shapka curling next to him, and starting to softly purr. He just stared at the darkness.

Hours passed. Or maybe not. Time was an abstract concept in the small pocket of warmth he had cocooned himself into. At some point his mind quieted down, and adrenaline started to recede, leaving an empty wasteland in its wake. Perhaps he should get up from the sofa, he thought idly. Not moving an inch. 

Yuri was still out. And until he returned Jean held his breath, suspended in the wait.

Eventually the front door clicked open. The sound of footsteps broke the silence of the apartment and Jean lifted himself into a sitting position, squeezing his eyes shut when light flooded the living room.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Yuri asked bemused. Jean blinked away the spots of colour dancing before his eyes, and  saw the blond looking at him with what was undeniably concern. 

In any other moment he would have quipped a joke at that, but he felt to tired to pretend he was alright. He had done it long enough. 

Too long.

“I really didn’t know she’d be there.” Jean spoke with a voice that was slightly hoarse from hours of silence, needing to settle that argument, to make Yuri understand at least  _ this much _ “I have no idea what’s she’s doing in Piter.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that shit out.” Yuri replied awkwardly, hands tucked in the pockets of his hoodie and head slightly bowed in what meant  _ I’m sorry  _ in Yuri speech. Not that he was ever going to hear that, Jean thought in a moment of unexpected wryness. 

He exhaled, feeling a small smile tug at his lips. Yuri grimaced before sitting down on the sofa and pulling Shapka in his lap. 

“You okay?” he asked with a scowl, clearing his throat, and looking at Jean from beneath a lock of hair that had slipped out of his ponytail.

He gazed back at Yuri, the truth pulling at him like a taut wire hooked inside his chest. But the apologetic look, the insecurity in Yuri’s posture which made him seem like the small fifteen year old debutant he had used to be a lifetime ago, made Jean’s words clash against the back of his teeth. 

“I’m fine.” he replied with a lopsided smile that felt as fake as the grins he pulled for the press, while he pushed the stray lock of hair behind Yuri’s ear. Then he forced his mouth into a teasing grin “The kitchen door looked quite sore, though” he joked, feigning lightheartedness. Yuri huffed an aborted laugh, shaking his head slightly

Jean was not fine, but Yuri needed him whole. So he pushed Isabella to the dark depths of his mind she belonged to. 

And pulled Yuri into a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm toying with writing style in this fic. I hope it's not boring. :3 Also, I'm not planning this fic to be too long. Hopefully it won't turn into another monster. XD  
> Let me know what you think. <3

 

The bedroom was dark. The faint light filtering from the window drew streaks of orange on Jean’s face, now relaxed in slumber. Yuri brushed his fingers through the damp locks on his forehead. The nightmare which had made Jean toss under the covers had faded at some point, and his sweaty body was rapidly cooling in the slightly chilly air of their bedroom. Yuri pulled the duvet up, securing it under Jean’s chin. Then he settled back on his pillow trying to fall back asleep.

He listened to the sound of Jean’s breathing, but his mind refused to give in to slumber. It kept replaying the past day. The fight, his overreaction, storming out of their apartment and walking on the snow-covered street of their suburb, cooling down. And feeling like shit for the way he had treated Jean. For the things he had said. 

His heart clenched, even as he scooted closer to Jean’s slumbering form. Yuri was no longer fifteen, he was aware he was quite a handful. But Jean never snapped, never told him to fuck off. Never left.

Over the years Yuri had been forced to admit to himself that he might have some issues. But he managed. He was not weak. He was just fucked up. And if he was a bit too prone to anger, a bit too skittish when it came to allowing people to get close to him, it was his goddamned business. 

Except when he ended up hurting Jean. 

He opened his eyes and stared at the outline of Jean’s face, exhaling heavily. The way he had greeted him, wrapped in a blanket with an empty expression in his usually vibrant blue eyes, had etched itself in Yuri’s memory, and guilt had lodged itself deep under his breastbone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Jean’s nightmare must had been connected to their fight. After all it had a been a while since the last time he had awoken to Jean’s distress. 

Fuck.

He scowled, feeling his stomach knot as guilt gnawed like a woodworm the insides of his chest. He knew he was under a lot of stress, what with the upcoming final and the bad fall he had taken after the Rostelecom Cup, which was making Victor contemplate pulling Yuri out of competition. His thigh has not stopped hurting, and the subpar jumps he had been doing in the past weeks fuelled a frustration that was burning under his skin, waiting for something to set it on fire. But no matter how fucking on edge he was, Yuri had no excuses for snapping like that. 

“I’m sorry.” he whispered to Jean’s sleeping form, feeling his words reverberate against Jean’s skin “I’m a fucking moron.”

His boyfriend had never given him any reason to distrust him. Quite the contrary in fact. Jean had been so fucking reliable from the very first date, that Yuri had spent the first months of their relationship waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

It never did. 

And it left Yuri feeling like a patented piece of shit. Especially since he couldn’t stop thinking about Yang’s presence in Saint Petersburg. What the fuck was Jean’s ex doing in Russia? Maybe he was being a paranoid possessive shit, but Jean was  _ his  _ boyfriend, and he had wasted enough time despising him instead of admitting to himself that he had feelings for him. That he found him hot. That he liked his music, his skating, the sound of his stupid laughter. 

Yuri had spent months to no end training with him and trying his damnedest to be a dick to him. And it had taken three drunk idiots and a broken nose for Yuri to get his head out of his fucking ass and realise there was more to him than a boisterous idiot. Yuri may had been a moron, but he was not going to let go of him, even with his stupid patented signs, fashion line and songs like ‘Theme of King JJ’. He fucking loved him.

He wrapped an arm across Jean’s chest, snuggling tightly in the crook of his neck, and relishing the touch even if his skin was sticky with rapidly cooling sweat. There was no fucking way he was going to let go of him. He loved the idiot too freaking much.

It was so strange to think that two years ago Yuri had been barely talking to him. That even after nearly six months of sharing the same rink  _ and  _ coach with him, Yuri had kept scowling at Jean, loudly wondering what had Victor been thinking when he had accepted to take JJ fucking Leroy as his student. 

He smiled at the memory of how he had nagged, stomped, threatened, slammed doors, given the silent treatment, but no means he had resorted to had made Victor explain why he had taken Leroy as a student after spending two seasons ignoring the fuck out of him. It was a question that had bugged him to no end. But eventually he had given in. They had competitions to win, and kicking the Canadian’s ass had been more important than why they shared a coach.

Even now, two and a half years later, Yuri only had a vague idea of the reason the former living legend had accepted to coach Jean. All he knew was that his boyfriend had been unable to train under his parents any longer, and that somehow Victor had accepted to work with him. More than once he had tried asking him, but Jean had always deflected. It was clear he was not keen on sharing that particular story, much like everything that surrounded the two and a half seasons Jean had been off the ice. So Yuri had eventually relented, his feelings for the idiot overpowering his curiosity. 

But even if he had stopped asking, it did not erase the ugly feeling that something must had happened. The fact alone that Jean was on meds was more than clue enough. And then there were the nightmares. They had used to be frequent when they had started going out, and Yuri had more than once needed to shake Jean awake and see that particular look of distress in his eyes that made his lungs clench. He hated seeing him like that.

Knowing that it had been his fault tonight, made him feel like shit. So maybe it was only fair sleep was eluding him. He would be training in zombie mode tomorrow morning, and even that would not be penance enough for the things he had said in the heat of the moment.

For putting that look on Jean’s face. 

He sighed wearily, closing his eyes. He was an asshole, and Jean was an idiot for putting up with him.

In spite of all odds, sleep eventually claimed him. And when the blaring of Jean’s alarm woke him, Yuri exhaled a string of Russian curses that made Jean chuckle sleepily. Yuri felt his heart flutter at the sound and without opening his eyes he snuggled closer to the warm body of his boyfriend.

“Snooze it.” he grumbled.

“We have to get up…” Jean tried to sound reasonable, but the yawn in his voice betrayed his sleepiness.

“Ten minutes.” was Yuri terse reply as he tightened his grip around Jean’s torso. 

He felt him sigh and chortle.

“Fine.” he whispered, pressing a kiss on Yuri’s hair. His hand trailed down his spine until it settled on Yuri’s waist, warm and familiar.

They lingered there, trading soft kisses and sleepy caresses until the alarm sounded once again and Yuri had to relinquish the comfort of Jean’s body to slide out of the covers. The frigid air made goosebumps rise on his bare arms. 

He hated the central heating in their building. It would shut down at night, like they weren’t living in the North of fucking Russia, where the temperatures were cold enough to make polar bears feel fucking cold. Moscow was by no means a warm place, but Saint Petersburg was a whole different thing. And the nearly fifteen years he had been living in the former capital had not made him keener on chilly bedrooms and the perpetual state of coldness his feet were in for the better part of the year.

While he made his way into the bathroom, Yuri remembered how nice it had been at Lilia’s house. He liked having his own place, but there had been perks in cohabitation with his coach. Even later, during the brief period he had endured sharing the same apartment with Victor and Katsudon, Yuri had not had to worry about the freezing floor under his bare feet when he got out of bed in the morning.

Turning the shower on, he let it flow for a while he waited for the water to heat. How Jean managed to deal with all of it without complaining was still unfathomable to Yuri. After all he had come from a quite entitled background. White picket fence house and all that shit. So Yuri doubted he had been forced to live in a small brutalist apartment with central heating, a dingy elevator with a chipped mirror, and too many neighbours to count. Yuri could not imagine King JJ getting woken up by the sound of plates being smashed in the apartment below, or having to take the stairs because the lady who lived on the ninth floor swore loudly if she had to share the elevator with anyone, let alone the  _ foreigner _ who lived on the seventh floor. 

And yet in the past year Jean had not said anything, even when the nasty  _ baba  _ had insulted him in colourful Russian, telling him he should go back to his country. Apparently it was his fault communism had not made it. Yuri had yelled back at her, stifling the urge to throttle the old woman. But when later he had translated the string of insults, his boyfriend had actually laughed at being called a capitalist pig. He claimed to be flattered for being the reason for the dissolution of a regime that had ended before he had been born.

Yuri spat the toothpaste out and rinsed his mouth. Jean was a fucking saint sometimes. But maybe they should consider looking for a better place. After all with their budgets combined they could afford it. 

The season was reaching its peak, and now was not the time for thinking about apartment hunting. 

After testing the water with his hand, Yuri got into the shower and let the jet of hot water ease the tension in his muscles. All the stress from the past day had knotted itself in his stiff back, and the ache in his thigh was making itself known with a dull throb. Yuri knew he had to face the ugly possibility of not competing in the GPF. Taking part in the Olympics was more important after all, and in order to get on the team he needed to ace Nationals. And if it meant sacrificing the final for the sake of getting back in shape before the end of December, Yuri would have to do it. No matter how much he hated the idea.

A knock on the door made him realise how long he had been standing in the shower. Quickly he washed himself. With with a last jet of water on his scalp to make sure there were no suds on his long hair, Yuri closed the tap and stepped out of the shower. 

He had a long day ahead.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I have nothing against Isabella, and I usually write her as a normal, functional person. Just not in this fic. <3


	3. Chapter 3

The faint morning light filtered through the large windows of the rink. The neon lights above cast a sharper glare on the the fresh layer of ice. Jean glided with ease, slowly warming up his muscles. His headphones were on, and they muffled the angry snarls Yuri kept throwing at their coach. His boyfriend was outside the rink, gesticulating as he argued with Victor. And Jean’s lips curled in wry amusement. 

To any outsider Yuri’s behaviour would have been unbecoming at best, and certainly outright aggressive. But beyond the angry veneer, there was deep affection. One which his boyfriend had always struggled to show his coach. Jean didn’t know if it was because Yuri had practically grown up in the shadow of the legendary Victor Nikiforov, or if perhaps it was Victor’s own disposition which pushed Yuri’s buttons. 

Most likely it was both.

Shaking his head at his musings, Jean worked his way into a series of compulsory figures, letting his slightly aching joints relax in the familiar motions. The Grand Prix Final was looming close and it was going to be yet another bitter battle with Yuri for gold. 

If his boyfriend was going to compete that was.

Jean glanced again at the blond who was still arguing with their coach. And by the random snarls that filtered through the music Jean was listening, he picked up enough to know they were discussing just that. His own feelings on the matter were mixed. Part of him sighed in relief at the sight of Yuri considering the option of pulling out of the competition until Nationals. He had been worried when his boyfriend insisted on ignoring the ever worsening ache in his thigh. But a small part of Jean was disappointed at the thought of competing in the GPF without him.

It wasn’t that the other skaters were not good enough. There was some serious competition to be had with Altin, Lee and Chulanont. But none of them were Yuri. 

Since the first season they had competed against each other, there had been a thrill to skating that he had been lacking before. The need to compare himself to the other. And outdo him. And while it had been doable those first two competitions, after the GPF in Barcelona it had become nigh impossible. Yuri had grown into a challenge that had both excited him and frustrated him. 

He still remembered Worlds that season. It had been a tight battle between them, only to be shoved to second and third place by a glowing Yuuri Katsuki. Jean suddenly exhaled, trying to stop his memories there before they followed down a path he did not want to revisit. 

Not in that moment. Probably never.

Memories of Izzy. Of the nearly unbearable tension that had surrounded the World Championship that season. Of the way she had looked at him, scrutinising every interaction, accusing him of looking at Yuri with more than just rivalry. Crying in their hotel room, throwing her engagement ring at him before leaving their room in tears. And Jean all but crawling to Isabella, apologising for something he had not done. Begging her not to leave him. Begging her to stay with him. To be his wife.

When he had gotten yet another bronze, she had snarled that he hadn’t  _ wanted  _ to win because then he would have had to marry her. And how she had known, she had known he hadn’t loved her. How the way he had been looking at the younger Russian had been sick.  _ He  _ was sick, she had told him. And Jean had bent himself in half to reassure her. To keep her happy.

It hadn’t worked.

Jean squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, shaking his head. He didn’t want to think about that. Any of that. It was bad enough Isabella had appeared out of the blue the day before. His whole body was still shaking with the aftershocks of the fight he and Yuri had had over it. He didn’t  _ want  _ to think about her.

He didn’t.

Opening his eyes, he unclenched his fists, feeling the tingle of the skin where his nails had dug crescents in it. Victor thankfully hadn’t noticed anything, still engrossed in his discussion with Yuri. And Yuuri had yet to join them at the rink.

Jean kept skating, slowly easing his body into jumps. Singles, doubles, triples, quads. The music played softly in his headphones as he glided diagonally across the rink before leaping into a Lutz, and nailing his signature quad with almost effortless precision. His mind was in that good blank zone where he only focused on his body and the music, and no thoughts crawled on the surface of it.

Faintly he registered Yuri joining him on the ice, but Jean kept to his side of the rink, stepping up into an Axel and then spinning the three and a half rotations. Another neat jump. He felt his lips curl into the beginning of a grin. There was nothing quite as fulfilling as nailing all of his jumps. Jean loved many things, but skating transcended them all. And being at the top of his shape felt almost exhilarating. 

He worked his way through his spins next, and then he stopped. He changed his music and got into the starting position for his short program routine. 

The first beats of the song drummed in his ears, and then Jean was gliding across the ice, moving in rockers. The fast paced music resounded inside him as he did a mohawk, and readied himself for his first quad. He lifted his left leg while the right one pushed him into the jump. One, two, three, four rotations and he was landing back on the same leg, perfectly nailing the loop.

But he was already moving forward, feeling more and more confident with each move in the field. The triple Axel was next and yes, he nailed it too. He wanted to pump his fist in the air, but the music carried him on, and Jean gained speed before letting the momentum carry his body into a spin. It was a powerful routine, playing on his strengths, on his trademark high jumps, and Rippon variations. Victor had known what he was doing, when he had choreographed it. Jean had to give him that. 

A step sequence later, he was launching himself across the rink, and hitting his toepick against the ice, Jean lifted himself up in a quad Lutz, his arms raised high. He landed it only to leap into a triple toe and nail the combination. The music slowed out, and his movements followed. He listened it as it gradually increased back to its main pace, and he entered his last two spins, rotating as the music reached its peak. 

And then, just in time with the last note, he exited a sit spin, and took his ending pose.

He breathed hard, his chest heaving. He pulled his headphones off. And the sound of clapping reached him. He frowned, pivoting on the spot and looking in the direction of the sound. 

Only to freeze.

Because sitting on the bleachers next to a grinning Mila Babicheva was none other than Isabella. 

She was smiling amiably, clapping like she had used to do back in the day. Like she had always done. Because even when her words had been slicing him deep, or when she had threatened to end their engagement, or when she had accused him of being a sick sick man, she had always cheered on him, always shown him her support. 

She had been the president of his fanclub after all.

Jean had no idea how long he stared at her, but the sound of skates coming closer, and the sudden arm around his waist startled him back to the present, and he glanced to his left where Yuri was standing close, holding his waist firmly while he scowled at the women on the bleachers.

Isabella stood up and made her way towards the barrier, heels clacking on the tiled floor. He felt Yuri’s fingers tighten. 

“JJ that was amazing!” she exclaimed, flashing him a pleasant smile, and pushing a lock of hair behind her ear “You will definitely make Canada proud at the Olympics!”

She kept smiling that warm smile of hers and Jean felt a chill begin to shiver under his skin. He swallowed, all the questions he wanted to ask stuck behind his teeth, .

“And what’s that to  _ you _ ?” Yuri snarled with vitriol, asking what Jean’s absent voice should have but couldn’t, and narrowing his green eyes at Izzy. Her gaze did not miss Yuri’s arm around him, but her expression did not falter, smle still nailed on her red painted lips. He saw Yuri’s mouth open to add something but Victor’s voice interrupted him

“Behave Yurio.” he said from the other side of the rink, and Jean turned his head, looking at their coach who was walking towards them “Isabella is here on behalf of the Canadian Olympic Committee”

“That I am.” she replied with a warm expression that did not reach her eyes, but only Jean saw that. Only he did. Because Mila was beaming at her, friendly and at ease, and Victor appeared to be charmed as well. It was just her nature, warm and welcoming, that drew everyone in, blinding them to the chill in her blue eyes. 

They could not see. But Jean could, Jean could. And his heart was rising to his throat, swollen and beating fast too fast. Because he _ could _ see her calculating expression. And he knew, he knew she was here to gain something. Izzy did nothing in vain. Nothing. Jean had learned that the hard way.

“Why the fuck do you need to be here?” Yuri suddenly asked, his tone still caustic, and Jean didn’t know if it had been seconds or ages but Victor eyed Yuri with an annoyed expression, which left his boyfriend unfazed, and glaring at Isabella.

She chuckled 

“Ever confrontational, aren’t you  _ Yurio? _ ” she asked, and Jean saw the vein on Yuri’s forehead throb. In that moment he had a sudden realisation of just how  _ bad  _ things were about to turn, and it snapped him out of his funk. He lifted his arm to Yuri’s shoulder and squeezed it in a silent plea.

“Yuri could have put it more nicely, I’ll give you that” he said, putting every acting skill he possessed in use, and flashing her one of his photogenic smiles “But I’m curious too. Why are you here Izzy?”

There must have been something in his tone because her eyes turned several degrees colder, even as her voice was pleasant as ever.

“As Victor said, I work for the Canadian Olympic Committee” she explained “And since you’re the only male figure skater not training in Canada, they sent me to make sure everything is in order for the upcoming Games.” and then pulling her painted lips in a pleasant smile that was everything but “After all you’re Canada’s greatest hope. We all cheer on you. Would be a shame if you disappointed us.” the  _ again  _ was unspoken but Jean heard it, and Yuri must have as well, because he visibly bristled.

“Everything is in fucking order.” Yuri snarled “So you can fly the fuck back to Canada,  _ Yang.  _ You’re not needed here!”

“Yuri. Enough.” Victor suddenly said in Russian, a serious expression on his face. He added some more, but was too fast for Jean to understand. However he got the gist of it a second later when Yuri’s arm reluctantly dropped from his waist and the blond skated back to the other side of the rink, fuming, and glaring at Victor and Isabella who were now amiably chatting.

Jean listened to Victor apologise for Yuri’s behaviour, and Izzy telling him it was alright. But it wasn’t, it wasn’t. Because she was here, in Saint Petersburg, in is  _ rink _ . And with every passing second Jean felt Yuri’s absence grow wide and wider. He stood there alone on the ice, trying to keep his mask on, but he could feel it crumble with every sharp beat of his heart. 

He didn’t know what was going on, but one thing was sure, Isabella was not here just to  _ make sure everything was okay _ . She may be idly chatting with Victor and Mila, but Jean had spent too much time with her. He  _ knew  _ her. He had watched Isabella tear apart his life, stitch by stitch, until even his own family turned their back on him. 

What was she doing here? Did she want to take this away from him too? 

But why would she do that? 

Why?

He didn’t even realise he was hyperventilating until his knees hit the ice. He faintly registered Yuri’s voice yelling from across the rink. And then there were hands on his shoulders. But they were too thin, and the nails were painted purple. He recoiled, falling on his ass, and feeling his lungs constrict even more, breaths no longer getting out. Another pair of hands was gripping his arm and he flinched at the contact. But then he saw blond hair and a pair of green eyes wide in worry, and he let Yuri take hold of him.

He was saying something, but Jean did not register it. Everything was white noise, and there was only the choking in his throat and the fear, the fear, the fear. Because he had been silly the day before to think her sudden appearance in Saint Petersburg was chance. Nothing was ever chance with her. Nothing. Isabella always had an agenda. 

And she was going to destroy this too, she was going to take it away, and Jean didn’t want to, he didn’t want to. 

Jean was cold, so cold, but it was more than the ice he was sitting on while Yuri held his shoulders, talking, shaking his head, and then trying to lift him up to his feet. No, it was more than the ice, it was a chill that spiralled from the deepest crevices of his bones and fanned outwards, engulfing every single muscle and sinew in his body. 

Yuri maneuvered him to an upright position, and then he was being sat down on a bench. Yuri’s hands left him and no, no, no. He chased them, nearly falling off, and Yuri was suddenly back, sneaking an arm around his back and holding him tight.

Jean buried his head in Yuri’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. 

The white noise slowly receded, and Yuri’s voice broke through. It was trembling, but it kept counting breaths. And Jean tried to follow it, breathing in synch. 

Bit by bit, his lungs untangled, and his heart slowed down.

The fear was still there, but with Yuri’s arms around him, Jean could pretend for a moment Izzy was not here, and that the life he had built himself in Russia was not about to be taken away from him, piece by piece. 

He could pretend everything was fine.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The locker room door clicked shut, muffling the sounds of the rink. Yuri looked at the dull red laminate before turning around, and looking at Jean who was sitting on the bench and staring at the laces of his skates, unmoving. After whatever the hell had been  _ that _ before, Victor had sent them both home. Well, technically he had sent Jean home, but there was no fucking way he was leaving his boyfriend alone. Not when he looked like that.

Yuri scowled, burying his hands in the pockets of his jacket, unsure at what to do. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

“What the fuck happened there?” he asked suddenly, sounding too harsh even to his own ears. But he had no fucking clue how else to word it. He needed to understand what was happening to his boyfriend, why he had acted so strangely at the sight of his ex. Why he had been looking at him with unadulterated fear just minutes before.

Jean didn’t respond, but Yuri saw his heave a sigh. Then he lifted his eyes, looking at him with a pleading expression.  _ Don’t ask me that,  _ it said, Yuri could read it clearly. And he wanted to respect that, but he also wanted to help Jean. But he didn’t know how to. 

It was frustrating.

But Yuri managed to hold his questions behind his teeth, squaring his jaw and getting dressed in his street clothes. 

The trip home was an uncharacteristically silent affair, and Yuri felt his scowl deepen with each passing minute. The need to know what the fuck was wrong with Jean was like an itch under the surface of his thoughts, and while he objectively knew it stemmed from worry, he could help feeling pissed off.

Yuri hated feeling helpless. And seeing Jean fall to his knees on the other side of the rink, body shaking while he looked at Yuri without really seeing, nothing but unabashed fear in his eyes, had made him feel more helpless than ever.  _ Useless _ . Because no matter what Yuri had done, or said it had not helped. Jean had kept struggling to get his breaths through, and Yuri had been so fucking scared. He hadn’t known what to do, and if it hadn’t been for Victor telling him to count breaths, Yuri wouldn’t have had a clue. 

It had been a horrible experience, and somewhere in the back of his mind Yuri knew anger was just the last defence to keep him upright, and not break down in a sobbing mess. Because he felt small, and stupid, and entirely inadequate. He hadn’t known how to help Jean, he didn’t even fucking know what the fuck all of that had been. A panic attack or some shit.

Victor had known what to do. Mila had too had been more helpful than Yuri had, draping her jacket across Jean’s shoulders. And even fucking Yang had looked like she would be more competent than Yuri at dealing with that shit. The only reason he had been the one holding Jean while he slowly got back to himself, had been Jean’s look of abject horror when he had tried pulling away. 

He glanced at Jean who was ascending the subway stairs next to him, shoulders slightly slumped, and gaze downcast. And some of his anger ebbed. 

Without a word he grasped Jean’s hand and squeezed it tightly. He saw Jean turn his head to look at him, but he didn’t say anything, and Yuri didn’t dare opening his mouth. His skin thrummed with the troubled mixture of emotions which still raged inside him, and he needed to calm the fuck down.

Their building loomed ahead, and Yuri found it odd to get back home in broad daylight. Somehow the greyish light of midday made the ugly block of concrete look even less appealing. The tiny windows scattered too close to each other, the narrow balconies looking like they tried to squeeze one another out of the facade. The wet patches where the melted snow had trickled down the wall left grey trails that made it look as dirty as the slush they were currently walking through.

Yuri hated their neighbourhood, the amount of people crammed in the same tenement, the smell of overcooked borscht that seemed to permanently linger in the entryway. The thick layer of grime in the corners of the corridor where the cleaning lady never bothered to clean, and the sickly looking potted plants the lady on their floor put next to window of the stairway, some in plastic pots and other in large cans which had once contained food or some other shit. 

He had grown up in a similar environment, but the years he had lived in the dorm and later at Lilia’s had made him forget all the ugly sides. And on the rare occasions he had travelled to Moscow he had been too busy being happy to see his Grandfather to care about the neighbours. But living with Jean always made him feel terribly self conscious about it all. He knew it was stupid, that somehow the idiot liked it, probably because it meant being with Yuri, or some other sappy reason of that kind. And while it made something warm slither up his chest, and squeeze his heart with how much he fucking loved the moron, he too often wondered if it was worth the sacrifice. If Jean was not giving up too much to be there in Saint Petersburg with him. But he also knew there were many things he was in the dark about. Like the reason why he had come to Russia in the first place. Or the reason why his family was as much of a taboo topic as talking about Yuri’s mother was. 

And somewhere in the shitton of things Yuri was not in the know about was an explanation to whatever the fuck had been that thing at the rink earlier. 

They exited the elevator and made their way to their apartment, hands still tangled, and still in absolute fucking silence. He fished the keys and unlocked the door far more angrily than he had planned, but the irritation that he had been able to tone down a notch was resurfacing. Yuri knew it was unfair to take this on Jean, but he was also very much aware that there were things Jean should have maybe told him instead of letting him guess. 

The door clicked closed behind them and Yuri shrugged out of his jacket, gnashing his teeth. He wanted to ask Jean, to confront him. But at the same time the way his shoulders were curled and his eyes kept avoiding Yuri, were pretty eloquent. Jean wanted to be left alone.

“I think I’ll go lie down a bit.” Jean mumbled. And it was the first fucking thing he had said since the conversation with Yang at the rink. Yuri looked at his retreating form, struggling against the urge to just shake him and demand to  _ know. _

He bit the inside of his lip to keep quiet, and watched Jean disappear into their bedroom.

“Fuck.” he muttered, shaking his head, feeling frustration elbow its way through his thoughts, struggling to just burst out.

And Yuri pushed it back, striding towards the kitchen and setting to make them something to eat. 

He needed to calm the fuck down. 

Two hours later, he was cleaning the mess of flour and dough from the kitchen counter, while the smell of pirozhki wafted out of the oven, when he heard the kitchen door creak open. Jean stood on the doorway, hair sticking in all direction and a sheepish expression on his face. He would have looked fresh out of bed if it hadn’t been for pallor of his skin, and the terribly tired look in his eyes. 

Yuri threw the kitchen rag in the sink, striding towards him and pulling him in a tight hug. He froze for a moment in surprise and then Jean’s arms gently rose to embrace him back. 

“I’m sorry.” he mumbled, barely audible, but Yuri still caught it, and squeezed him tighter.

“Shut up, moron.” Yuri bit back without any heat, holding him close and feeling the last dregs of anger seep away “I have no fucking idea what happened today, but whatever it is you’re not fucking apologising. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Jean said, lifting his head and slowly pulling out of the hug

“Now, stop moping and help me clean.” Yuri said matter of factly, grabbing a kitchen rag and throwing it at Jean “The pirozhki will be done in a couple of minutes.”

“Thanks.” Jean said, sliding next to him to help him. “I… I didn’t want you to see me like that. And I know you must have questions, yeah?”

Yuri nodded, trying to push down the curiosity and worry he had managed to rein in by kneading dough far more violently than he normally did. 

“I’m sorry…”

“What did I say about apologising…” Yuri protested, feeling his nostrils flare.

“No, hear me up, Yuri.” Jean said, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter “I’m sorry you had to see that. And that I never speak about home. But it’s… well it’s really a mess, and I don’t like to think about it.” then after a pregnant pause “And Izzy…” his voice trembled slightly and Yuri saw him swallow “She reminded me of… of all those things.”

And if Yuri hadn’t already felt bad about the anger he had barely repressed before, now he felt like an utter piece of shit. Because Jean’s hands were trembling, and it was obviously fucking difficult for him to speak. 

“It’s okay, Jean.” he said, prying his fingers off the kitchen counter and gripping his hands in his own “I don’t give a fuck if you don’t tell me shit. Just, well, I guess, just tell me what to do when it happens? Because I was fucking clueless today.”

“I’m…” Jean began, but Yuri interrupted him with a sharp

“If you tell me you’re sorry I’m going to kickflip your ass all the way to Moscow.”

And Jean’s chest trembled as a chuckle made his lips curl.

“Okay. I won’t, I won’t!” he told him with a shade of mirth in his voice, and Yuri felt his own lips curl into a smile, then turning more seriously “I used to have those, panic attacks that is, a lot before. But it’s been a while. And it took me by surprise. But what you did was okay. It’s pretty hard to breathe, so counting breaths, and trying to make me focus on that is good.”

“Victor told me to do that.” Yuri grumbled, grimacing. 

“We’re really lucky to have him.” Jean said fondly, but there was something grave to his voice “You have no idea how grateful I am he took me as his student.”

“Did he… Is it connected to the the shit you don’t want to talk about?” he asked before he could stop himself, curiosity too strong resist. But before he could backtrack, Jean opened his mouth to answer.

“Yeah, it is.” he said “Victor has no idea how much he helped me.” then after a pause he added more quietly “I really needed to get away from there.”

“Home?” Yuri asked, once again his tongue working faster than his mind.

“Montreal.” Jean replied, then pressing a kiss on Yuri’s forehead he whispered “Home is here.”

The words made suddenly swelled inside Yuri’s chest, threatening to choke him. 

He didn’t known if it was that alone, or everything he had bottled up, all the emotions he had not allowed himself to express, all the fear, the anger, the helplessness. Yuri didn’t know what it was but he suddenly felt tears pooling in his eyes.

“You smooth moron.” he told Jean, his voice wet as his vision blurred “You fucking idiot. You can’t just go and say stuff like that!” he protested, hitting his chest with their still entwined hands. Then, swallowing down the tears he was  _ not  _ going to spill he said “I fucking love you, Jean. I love you. I love you.”

Caught between the words spilling out of his mouth and the tears he was still somehow managing to hold back, Yuri barely noticed Jean’s hands breaking free of his hold, until he felt them softly cupping his face.

“I love you too, Yuri.” Jean told him, voice earnest, filled with everything he could not speak of. And Yuri could no longer keep those stupid tears from falling, rolling down towards Jean’s thumbs. 

He hated it, crying, having anyone see him weak. But this was Jean. And maybe for just once, it was okay to let go. 

Then Jean kissed him. And all the jagged edges of the things still out joint dulled for just a moment. 

For just a moment everything was perfectly fine. 


	5. Chapter 5

Jean woke up with a gasp, his heart kicking painfully hard against his ribs. Shivers crawled down his skin, and he heaved his breaths, trying to get air, but somehow he was not able to. There were sheets tangled around his body, and they felt like hands holding him down, choking him, and there was fear fear fear. He needed to break free. But he couldn’t. Because the covers were vines curling around his limbs, and his shoulders were pressed inside a vice. He struggled against the constraints, flailing his arms. They connected with something, and for a second the grip relented. Long enough for Jean to kick away from the bed and the sheets keeping him trapped.

He fell on the floor with a thud, and dull pain flared from his hip, but he barely noticed it. His instincts had kicked in, and he stumbled to his feet, all but falling towards the door. There were cries, and yells, but nothing truly registered. He had to get away.

The doorknob was in his palm, but his hand shook and he couldn’t get it open. _Why couldn’t he get it open?_ His heart was pumping too fast, too loud. And adrenaline coursed through his shivering limbs.

Suddenly a hand closed around his forearm, and before Jean could push it away he heard his name being shouted in his ears.

_“Jean!_ Stop it! Stop!” it was a desperate cry, and the voice the voice, it was wrong to hear it so distraught, on the verge of breaking. “Please, Jean!!”

Half a dozen heartbeats, threatening to break the mach barrier, before his vision started to clear.

And the last shreds of nightmare began falling down.

He recognised the room. Dimly lit, small, and the floor was cold under his bare feet. He was not in Montreal. He was not in Canada. The hand curled around his arm was not _her._ He was safe. His breaths were coming in shallow huffs, but Jean recognised the blond strands of tangled hair, the terrified green eyes. Yuri. It was Yuri. _He_ was safe. A tentative hand rose towards him, and he did not recoil.

“Jean?” Yuri’s voice was small, and there was something warm and comforting in it in spite of the wariness. His right hand was gingerly cupping Jean’s jaw, thumb running small circles on his cheekbone. Jean closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of the touch.

“I’m sorry.” he mumbled, struggling to stop his chest from heaving. Everything was fine. He was in Saint Petersburg, with Yuri, safe. “Yuri…”

His boyfriend shushed him, moving closer and leaning his forehead against Jean’s. The stalwart warmth of Yuri close to him made him aware of his own shivers. His body was all but trembling, and it didn’t make any sense. There was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing. And yet Jean could not help the rush of adrenaline which still coursed through his body, readying him for flight. _Only_ for flight. The instinct to fight had stopped being an option a long time ago. Izzy had lanced it, and with time it had all seeped out, draining him of anything but the lingering fear. She had made him dependant on her in the most absolute way. And when she had had enough, she had taken it all away, leaving an empty shell behind.

Jean wanted to stop being afraid, to take that power away from her. But Izzy was always there, just behind the corner.

He did not register sliding down to the floor until Yuri’s knee bumped lightly against his, and Jean opened his eyes to find himself sitting with back propped against the bedroom door. Yuri’s hands were stroking his shoulders, his arms, his hair. Soothing like a warm shower on sore muscles. And Jean closed his eyes once again, relishing in the fuzzy quiet that was starting to fill his mind. Yuri had somehow managed to break him out of the blind panic he had awoken to, and it made Jean feel a knot of guilt tighten around his throat. It had been the second episode in less than twenty four hours. He couldn’t do this to Yuri. Or himself. The chaos in his mind hadn’t been so bad since he had left Montreal.

His lids fluttered open and he gave Yuri a pained look, shaking his head before he spoke.

“I can’t go back to the rink.” he told him.

“Because of her.” it was not a question, but Jean nodded nonetheless, dropping his head.

“You don’t…She…” he tried to explain, but his tongue just refused to cooperate, and his mind couldn’t quite summon the right words to encompass the mixture of apprehension, insecurity and downright terror her presence at their rink evoked. “I just can’t.” he said eventually, shaking his head.

“You don’t have to explain, you moron.” Yuri said with a huff of exasperation that was too soft to bite, and Jean found his lips pull into a tentative smile in spite of everything. “I’ll call the old man when it’s not the crack of fucking dawn and tell him you’re not coming until that bitch gets the fuck out of our rink. And she better do it _before_ the GPF. I’m not letting her fuck up your skating!”

There was something deeply comforting in the harshness of Yuri’s words, and Jean found himself relax a notch. This was something Izzy could not take away from him.

He wanted to tell Yuri it didn’t matter if he didn’t compete in the Grand Prix finals, not when there was still a ghost of adrenaline coursing through his limbs, and the fear of what Isabella could do was greater than the thought of skipping yet another Grand Prix. Yuri was not going to compete anyway, and it was not the same without him. Winning only mattered when one had an opponent. Someone to challenge. And Yuri had always been that to him, ever since his Senior debut.

Oh.

He had been a proper rival. He had been someone to measure his skills against. Someone better than him.

It was a strange realisation to have in the gloom of the Russian dawn, while he sat on the cold bedroom floor with Yuri’s arms holding him in a tight embrace. And maybe it should have occurred to him years ago, but he had been biased. He had suspected Isabella’s words rung true, and the only reason why Yuri mattered had been nothing but the basest of Jean’s urges.

But she had been wrong. She had been _wrong._

It had been Jean’s admiration of Yuri’s skills, of the rival he was, that had cleared the way for the other emotions which had filled his chest. For that fluttering of his heart which Yuri never ceased to elicit. For the overwhelming urge to climb to the topmost floor of their tenement and scream for all Saint Petersburg to hear how happy he was to have him.

His arms tightened and he buried his face in the crook of Yuri’s neck, shaking his head lightly.

“ _Je t’aime,_ Yuri.” he murmured, _I love you._

And for the first time it was lighter, it was unburdened with the ugliness of Isabella’s suspicion. Because now he understood, and it was right. Loving Yuri had been right from the very start.

He kept murmuring in French until the blond cupped his cheek, pressing a strong kiss against his lips, and Jean didn’t need Yuri’s words to know he felt the same. But Yuri spoke nonetheless.

“I love you too.” he told him, Russian pouring off his lips and Jean felt his still panicked heart swell.

Everything was a mess, but he had Yuri. He had Yuri.

And that was all that mattered.

 

Jean had not told Yuri about toying with the idea to not compete at the GPF, but after a week had flown by in the monotony of their small apartment, his boyfriend had realised it. Surprisingly enough, Yuri had chosen not to comment about it. Victor, on the other hand _had,_ but he had known enough about Jean’s state not to press. After all they had bigger fish to fry this season. And getting back in shape for the Nationals was far more important. It would be Jean’s ticket for the Olympics. And he was not going to give _that_ up.

So he had elected to take a break from skating. And foolishly, perhaps, he had hoped that with him away from the rink Isabella would have gone away. But November was ending and she had not left Saint Petersburg.

Quite the contrary in fact.

Yuri had told him how quickly she had charmed her way into the graces of everyone at the rink save from Yuri himself. And Jean knew his boyfriend was not exaggerating. Isabella was good at smiling, and crawling under people’s defences. She would dig, bit by bit with her manicured nails, flipping her hair, and laughing that pleasant chime her soft voice could conjure. In a way Jean knew that it was only Yuri’s jealousy that made it impossible for her to charm him. And while it eerily reminded him of her, and those ugly months when everything had started going askew, there was something different in Yuri’s anger.

It was not directed at him.

Because ever since she had reappeared like a ghost in Jean’s life, his boyfriend had been pissed off at her presence. And after that day at the rink, he had gotten angry on Jean’s behalf. It was confusing and so strange. Because it had been so long since he had last experienced someone raging for his sake, since he had last felt vindicated. Even if it was only inside his mind.

He sighed, swallowing the bitterness on his tongue. For all that it was refreshing, Yuri’s rage was unable to stop the nightmares from plaguing his dreams. And for the past week he had woken every morning awash in cold sweat, and feeling his limbs tremble in the aftershocks. It made him feel more helpless than ever. Because there were so many things he wanted, _needed_ to do, but Izzy’s shadow loomed above him. And he could do nothing about it.

Nothing but wait, and hope for a miracle.

His hands shook around the lukewarm cup of tea he was nursing, blanket strewn across his shoulders as he sat on the sofa, waiting for Yuri to come back home. Daylight was waning quickly, and there was nothing but the long shadows painted on the walls to keep Jean company while Yuri was at the rink. They had argued more than once, especially that first morning when Jean’s nightmare had awoken them, but his Nationals were in less than a month and he needed all the training he could get. Jean could not jeopardise Yuri’s career just because he was too much of a coward to face Isabella.

Jean scowled at the cup, lifting his head to stare at the muted television in front of him. The silence of the apartment wrapped around him almost chokingly, but if he focused enough it was anything but quiet. He could hear the faint voices of their neighbours arguing above them, the sound of furniture being closed with too much strength from across the hall, and the blaring of a television that was hard to locate, but Jean was fairly sure it was also on their floor.

Sitting there in the dimming light of the afternoon was becoming a habit for him. He had hardly done anything else in the past week but spending hours just listening to the tenement breathe around him, to the sounds of people going on with their lives undisturbed by the shifting of tectonic plates Jean was experiencing.

Because just thinking about Isabella kicked the ground from under him. Let alone picturing himself in her presence. At least if he didn’t see her he could pretend she wasn’t really here, that she was not actively working to cut him out from everyone’s lives like she had successfully done with his family and friends back in Montreal. But make belief could only last for so long before reality sunk in again.

Torn between the need to move and the fear of what would happen once he _did_ cross the threshold of their apartment, Jean waited. Almost like holding his breath he just waited for something to change. Inside him or outside him. It didn’t matter.

But until it did change he was stuck there.

  



	6. Chapter 6

The snow was falling in soft flakes, covering the already frosted ground in a new layer of greyish whiteness. Yuri huddled deeper into his winter jacket to shield himself from the cold. He trudged towards the rink watching the orange light of the streetlamps set the snow on fire in the gloomy morning twilight. He passed by the row of trees that loomed with their bare branches in front of the skating arena, trying not to think how easily he had fallen back into the routine of going to practice alone. He had been doing so for years before Jean had showed up in his life. But it was wrong now. 

Jean had come to Saint Petersburg to train as Victor’s student, to climb back to the podium that was rightfully his. But instead of walking by his side to their morning training, Jean was at home. And as days blurred into a week, and then two, Yuri’s confident veneer began to  crack. The GPF was around the corner, and the both of them were not competing. It was uncanny, but even worse was Jean’s indifference to it all. Yuri was beyond pissed to have to skip the final because of his thigh. It barely even hurt, but with the Olympics approaching quickly Yuri had done the sensible thing for once, to Victor’s surprise and relief. 

Jean had his reasons to take a break, but it still worried him greatly. To see him hovering around the apartment like a wraith, to help him calm down his ragged breathing when nightmares woke him more nights than not. He felt helpless, and going to the rink each morning was getting harder and harder. He didn’t like to leave his boyfriend alone, not when he could clearly see how distressed he was and how uncharacteristically quiet he had grown. But even though he was not going to compete in the GPF he had Nationals in a few weeks, and he needed to be in top shape for them. 

The salt which covered the stairs to melt the snow cracked under his boots as Yuri started climbing his way to the entrance. It took him more time than usual to reach the landing. But he couldn’t shake the feeling it would have been better to stay at home today. Jean had barely looked at him from above his bowl of  _ kasha. _

But Yuri had still seen the dark circles that had shadowed his eyes. And he had felt guilty.

He still did.

He sighed, looking at the door in front of him. The snow covered street was reflected on the glass. He observed it for a moment, wondering it he had really done all in his power. Should he have pressed for more informations when they had talked about the panic attack Jean had experienced the last time he had been at the rink? Had Yuri made the right call to respect his plea? To not insist that Jean  _ explain? _ Because not knowing made it nigh impossible to help him. And that ate at Yuri. 

He knew it was all somehow connected to the two seasons Jean had missed. Something must have happened, because during that time he had broken up with his fiancée and lost contact with his family. 

And the latter was one of the strangest things in this whole situation. 

Yuri could still vividly remember how close Jean had been with his parents. It had made Yuri gag back in the day, disgusting like every sappy aspect of JJ had been. And if it had been envy, well Yuri had never claimed to be the better man. But for Jean to have cut ties with his family something _must_ have happened. Something major that had ended up changing Jean in ways that Yuri was still discovering, even after all this time.

He breathed in the frosty air, shaking his head. 

He had been mulling over this for days to no end, but no matter which side he turned these facts he always ended up with questions and no answer to any of them. He needed to find out what had happened. He needed to talk to someone who was in the know.

Yuri had barely finished his thought when in what had to be fucking karma or some shit, he caught with the corner of his eye a familiar figure wearing a designer coat in the greyish frost of the street. He turned his head ever so slightly, looking at Yang’s approaching form. He almost laughed.  _ She  _ most likely  _ had _ an insight in Jean’s past. 

Not that Yuri would ever ask her. His lips curled in displeasure at the thought. 

Only to twist into a smirk of schadenfreude when Yang shivered from the cold, hugging her chest to ward off the cold. She was jogging towards the rink, with her nose tucked into a scarf that Yuri had no doubt was cashmere. She was as bad as Victor when it came to flaunting her wealth. Though it wasn’t like Victor did it on purpose, Yuri mused as he turned his back to Yang and finally pushed the door open, stepping into the warmer hallway of the rink. His coach had been used to the money that came from being a fucking Living Legend, and after a decade and a half of being top pick for any sponsor he had gotten used to luxuries Yuri would never even think of spending money on. Frugality had been ingrained deeply within Yuri. After all he had been the sole breadwinner of his family since his Junior days. Which made the way Yang flaunted her designer shit all the more irritating, and fuelled his dislike for the woman.

Jealousy about her being Jean’s ex aside, Yang truly embodied everything Yuri disliked in people. His animosity towards her dated back to Yuri’s first GPF in the Senior division. And the patronising way she had acted. He hadn’t liked her back then, and all that had happened in the past weeks had only added insult to injury. Yuri couldn’t wait for her to just fucking leave, and leave them the fuck alone.

Snarling, Yuri reached the locker room. It was blissfully empty, and Yuri peeled his jacket off and threw it into an open locker, proceeding then to remove all the thick layers of winter clothing he had amassed on his body to ward off the Russian winter. His hands worked on autopilot while his mind kept circling back to Yang and how much he wished he could tie her up and ship her out of the Russian Federation, possibly with a permanent ban from entering the country.

But even as he pictured how nice it would be to put her in a cardboard box and put a post stamp on it, he couldn’t help the earlier nagging thought from worming its way back to the forefront of his mind. Yang had been there when shit had hit the fan for Jean. He had no doubt about it. She was almost certainly privy to the things Jean was reluctant to tell him. 

Yuri curled his lips in a grimace. He wasn’t going to ask  _ her  _ about it, for fuck’s sake. 

But he had to wonder if there was anyone else who could unravel this mystery. 

Fuck.

He ran his fingers through his hair with irritation before he slammed his locker shut. Everything was so fucking complicated. He had Nationals to ace, a boyfriend to take care of, and Yang was like an itch that not only refused to go away, but became worse and worse with each passing day. Everything had been fine before she had appeared out of the blue, only to turn into a clusterfuck within days. There had to be another way to help Jean that did not involve asking for Yang’s help.

Yuri gritted his teeth, breathing out a colourful curse before he walked out of the locker room. As he walked towards the rink he mused on how fucking simple had been his first season in the Senior division. Back then all he had had to worry about was kicking everyone’s ass and win.

 

Three days later Yuri had almost forgotten the small lapse of sanity when he had entertained the notion of talking to Yang about Jean’s past. Everyone’s last minute preparations for the GPF had taken most of his attention, even if he wasn’t personally involved, and Jean had not gotten any worse in the meanwhile. His boyfriend had even managed to sleep two nights in a row without waking up drenched in sweat. So Yuri had focused on his skating, and the rapidly approaching Nationals. Yuri had the rink for himself for a week and Victor was exploiting that fully. 

Which left Yuri as a pile of aching limbs by mid afternoon. 

Grinning, Yuri plopped down on the bleachers, toweling his neck dry. It was exhausting, yes, but Yuri had always enjoyed pushing himself harder. And the absence of any pain in his thigh was a blessing too. Things were  _ finally  _ starting to get back to some semblance of normality. 

Yuri had just reached for his water bottle to take a much needed drink when the clacking of heels drew his attention. He didn’t need to see to know who it was. 

And it was coming closer. His mouth set into a deep scowl. 

“Hello Yuri.” Yang greeted his pleasantly. Yuri just stared at her, biting his tongue. Victor was looking at them from the rink side, and Yuri was  _ not  _ going to be forced to apologise for snapping at her. Again. “Is JJ still ill?” Yang asked, unperturbed by his lack of greeting. There was a touch of concern in her voice that anyone else would have found genuine. 

Anyone but Yuri.

His mother had given him very little, save for giving birth to him, but she  _ had  _ taught him what liars looked like. How fake affection smelled. 

And Yang was  _ reeking  _ of it _. _

“Cut the shit, Yang.” he told her evenly, setting the towel down on the bleacher “I know you’re not worried. What do you want?”

He had to give it to Yang, she was a persistent one. Her smile didn’t waver the fraction of an inch, and she kept the veneer of concern firmly on her face. She even wrung her hands for good measure. 

“I  _ am  _ worried.” she told him, furrowing her brow in what was supposed to be confusion “It’s not like JJ to miss so many practices.”

“And yet he missed two whole seasons.” Yuri bit back, lifting an eyebrow.

“Exactly.” she exclaimed, voice twisted in sympathy “I’m really worried he might have spiralled back to the way he had been back then.” Yuri watched her sit down next to him, turning to him with a sad expression that was almost genuine. Almost. “You didn’t see him back then. It was a terrible business-” she shook her head “It’s not my place to talk about it. I’m sorry.” 

If Yuri hadn’t disliked her guts he would have admired her. It was fucking amazing how good she was. She made his mother look like a rookie. The way Yang had approached him, reaching out with sympathy. Throwing a bait there, but not really giving anything away. She was a fucking pro at this, wasn’t she? Yuri’s lips curled in disgust. He was fucking glad he had not really considered going to her to fish for information. If the display he had just witnessed was anything to go by, Yuri couldn’t trust a single fucking word this woman uttered.

She was looking at him, staring even, and Yuri realised he had taken a bit too long to react. 

“Fuck off Yang.” he told her evenly before taking his towel and getting back to his feet “I don’t have time for shitty mind games.” he threw behind his shoulder, without looking at her, and strode back to the rink .

Victor was eyeing inquisitively. 

“What do you want?” he spat, glaring at his coach “I didn’t yell, and I didn’t argue with her. Shouldn’t you be fucking happy?”

Victor’s lips pulled into a smile and he saw his shoulders shake in a muted chuckle.

“I didn’t say anything Yurio.” he told him in his usual singsong voice, and Yuri predictably growled back

“My name is  _ not  _ Yurio.” 

  
  



End file.
